


Marked

by randi2204



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Battle of Five Armies - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Come Marking, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Sex, Sexual Content, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randi2204/pseuds/randi2204
Summary: Several years post-Battle of the Five Armies, a cold prevents Bilbo from accompanying Thorin on a diplomatic visit, but not from giving Thorin a surprise welcome home gift.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 10
Kudos: 199





	Marked

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** They all belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, his estate and heirs, not to me. I’m sure he’s spinning in his grave.

Two days before Thorin and Bilbo were to leave Erebor to treat with the Men in the kingdom of Dorwinion, Bilbo started sniffling.

“Oh dear,” he said, patting his pockets in search of a clean handkerchief. “I must be coming down with something.”

At his words, Thorin looked up sharply from the document he had been reading – a briefing on the royal family of Dorwinion and some of the traditions and taboos of the area, with copious notes from Balin on how to avoid offending them. “What?”

“I’m sure it’s just a cold,” Bilbo said. “Ah!” He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in his waistcoat and dabbed at his nose.

Unfortunately, that only alarmed Thorin further, for Bilbo had said the very same thing the previous winter just before falling prey to an illness with a raging fever that had sapped all his strength, and left him with a cough that lingered until spring. He stood too quickly, his chair scraping against the stone floor, and circled his desk, groaning with paperwork, to embrace Bilbo and press his lips to his brow. “You don’t feel feverish,” he murmured.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, his tone heavy with a warning that Thorin longed to ignore but didn’t quite dare.

“Perhaps you should rest for a bit?” he suggested, forcing an encouraging note into his voice.

Bilbo sighed and leaned away to look up at him. “I realize this is because of how very sick I was this past winter,” he said, “so it would be churlish to yell at you. But I will tell you that, right now, it’s just a cold if it’s anything, and I will still be able to go with you to Dorwinion. There’s absolutely no need to worry.”

That was not as comforting as Bilbo probably imagined, either; the whole time his illness had been taking firmer and firmer grip of him, Bilbo had urged him not to worry, it was simply a cold… until he couldn’t speak sensibly any longer because he was delirious with fever. Thorin had no desire to experience that again.

“Perhaps,” he began hesitantly, and felt Bilbo stiffen in his arms. He winced; his hobbit was clever and knew what he was about to say.

“I am fine,” Bilbo stated, his voice even. “I will be able to go with you.”

“I wish you would rest—”

“Thorin—”

“—or at least consider resting—”

“—I _told you_ —”

“—in the hopes it might clear up by the time we are due to leave?”

“—that I am absolutely… what?” Bilbo frowned up at him, but with his brows quirked as if confused.

Thorin took a breath. He’d managed to stave off Bilbo’s anger; now he just had to keep from igniting it again. “I would much rather have you go with me,” he said, smiling as he lightly traced the point of Bilbo’s ear with a finger. “Who else would be able to salvage the situation when I inevitably insult the queen of Dorwinion _and_ her personal vineyard?”

Bilbo laughed, almost in spite of himself.

“But I must admit,” he continued, his smile fading slightly, “that, as much as I prefer to have you with me at all times, I would much rather you be _well_. I know you’re not fragile, but if I were to say that I am not affected by the memory of you being so very ill, it would be a lie.”

Bilbo cupped Thorin’s cheek, his expression melting into fond concern and no small amount of guilt. “Oh, Thorin. I _am_ sorry…”

“You need not apologize, beloved,” he said, leaning into Bilbo’s hand. “But please consider staying here if you are not entirely well by the time our departure comes?”

Bilbo sighed. “Oh, very well.”

Thorin tightened his arms to draw him against his chest once more. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Impossible dwarf,” Bilbo said into his shoulder, but the words were warm rather than scolding.

“Stubborn hobbit,” Thorin returned. “Do you realize that of the two of us, Balin _insists_ that I am the more stubborn?”

“Do you realize that if I stay, Balin will _insist_ on coming with you?”

He winced at the thought; that was not what he wanted at all. _Still,_ he thought, running his hand down Bilbo’s back, _if he rests a bit, he’ll be able to go with me._

***  
Two days later, the retinue for the journey to Dorwinion slowly organized itself behind Erebor’s gates. 

Thorin glared down at the bag he was buckling to his pony. Bilbo’s cold had not cleared up by last night as he’d believed it would, and in deference to Thorin’s wishes – _ha!_ – he had elected to stay behind. All he had wanted was for Bilbo to rest so he would be recovered to go to Dorwinion.

_Mined myself into a cave-in_ , he thought darkly, and jerked too hard on the strap, causing his pony to snort and sidle away. “Stay still, you,” he muttered.

“Don’t take it out on the pony, Thorin,” Bilbo said at his elbow. 

He sighed. “I’m not.” But he sounded like a petulant child to his own ears.

“You are, but as long as you don’t make a habit of it, I’m sure she’ll forgive you.” He stepped to the pony’s head, an apple appearing in his hand. “Won’t you, Peony?” The pony lipped at the apple, then took it from his hand with a _crunch_.

“Why must you give my ponies such _flowery_ names?” Thorin grumbled. “Why not something intimidating, like Skull-crusher, or Blood-spitter?”

Bilbo gave him an amused look, stroking the pony’s velvet-soft muzzle. “May I remind you that your cousin named his war pig Snuggles?”

“It’s a _battle boar_ , not a war pig,” he replied with great dignity, and secretly delighted at Bilbo’s grin and soft chuckle. “And it sounds much more fearsome in Khuzdul.”

“Snuggles the war pig.” Bilbo’s grin widened.

He sighed and somehow refrained from rolling his eyes; it had been a mistake to let slip the name of Dáin’s boar, but he’d been a bit in his cups, and Bilbo had asked so nicely…

Once he’d finished buckling the bag to his saddle, he turned to watch Bilbo, who had reached up to check the headstall of the pony’s bridle – or perhaps just to scratch behind its ears; it was difficult to tell. He was murmuring something to the pony (no, he would _not_ call it by that ridiculous flower name) that made its ears flick back and forth, but all Thorin heard as he stepped up next to his hobbit was “—foul mood, but I must ask you to ignore that.” At Thorin’s approach, he straightened up and dabbed at his nose with his handkerchief before tucking it away again.

He was wearing a scarf and a heavy coat (both of them at Thorin’s insistence, despite it being a fair spring day), and his face was a little pink. But he would much rather his hobbit be slightly overheated than chilled, particularly since he was still not well.

“I am not in a foul mood,” Thorin said, frowning.

“You are,” Bilbo disagreed, his lips twitching into a smile. “But I’m sure it will improve once you are moving, and as long as Peony forgives you, you’ll be fine.”

“You are not nearly as funny as you think you are,” he grumbled, but he still reached out to cup Bilbo’s cheek in his palm, his thumb stroking lightly because he simply couldn’t stop himself.

Bilbo’s smile softened. “I’ll miss you, Thorin.” He stretched up at the same moment Thorin leaned down, and their brows touched for a brief moment. “Stay safe,” he whispered. Then, as they straightened away again, in a more normal tone, he added, “And for goodness sake, don’t insult the queen’s vineyard!”

Thorin didn’t laugh – his hobbit still wasn’t funny – but he did give Bilbo a small smile before swinging up onto the pony. Bilbo backed away as the pony pranced, as if it was considering protesting more vehemently, then it settled. Thorin urged it into motion and took his place at the head of the column that was slowly forming. He glanced over his shoulder as they headed out the gate a few minutes later, and found Bilbo standing next to Ori and twisting his handkerchief in his hands. When he saw Thorin looking his way, he smiled and lifted a hand to wave. Thorin nodded and faced forward again with a sigh. _Three weeks,_ he reminded himself. _It’s only three weeks…_

At that moment, however, it seemed interminable.

Thorin didn’t know that as soon as he faced front again, Bilbo turned to Ori and said, “Right. Let’s get started.”

***  
He was pushing too hard for the wagons to keep up, he knew it, but at the same time, Thorin was eager to return home. What he had hoped would be a short getaway with his hobbit and a sidebar of diplomatic relations had turned into a simple – and lonely – diplomatic journey. Even though it had ended in success and a trade treaty with the people of Dorwinion, it had been disappointing in the extreme due to Bilbo’s absence. _And I’ve been without him far too long,_ Thorin thought, frowning.

The sight of Erebor in the distance brought a smile to his face, however; it meant he was nearly home.

“’Bout time you smiled,” Dwalin said, nudging his pony closer to Thorin’s own. “You’ve been mopin’ for the last three weeks.”

“I have not,” he protested with all the dignity he could muster. Unfortunately, it was undermined by the telltale heat suffusing his cheeks.

Dwalin snorted. “Tell it to the elves, this dwarf ain’t buyin’ it. If you hadn’t already turned my brother’s hair white—”

“That was Fili and Kili, not _me_ —”

“—then I would have said you managed it last week.” He shook his head in mock dismay. “You are the _grumpiest_ dwarf I’ve ever met when you ain’t gettin’ any—”

“Consider your words carefully.”

“—any affection from Bilbo,” Dwalin finished, as if he’d always meant to.

Thorin muttered under his breath, and tried to ignore him. However, Dwalin was a difficult dwarf to ignore, even for someone who’d known him all his life.

“Are you gonna be able to make it back to the mountain?” Dwalin needled with unholy glee. “You ain’t gonna dissolve into a puddle from needing hobbit huggles before we get there, are you?”

“If you don’t leave me alone this instant,” Thorin replied, his voice low and grating, “your brother will soon be an only child.”

Dwalin scoffed; it was an old threat. Still, he dropped back a little and left Thorin to his thoughts. Since they slowly filled with all that he might do to Bilbo once they were reunited, they were more pleasant, if not particularly conducive to a comfortable ride. 

At least Erebor grew larger and larger on the horizon, reminding him he was growing ever closer to home.

***  
After three weeks without his hobbit, every moment that delayed their reunion was a moment too long. The longer he was king, the longer the ceremonies and meetings seemed to become. The councilors droned on at such length that he seriously considered throwing Bilbo over his shoulder and just leaving, and shortly afterwards, just for expediency’s sake, throwing him on the council table just so the councilors would _leave them alone_. In the end, the only reason he didn’t was because Bilbo caught his eye and shook his head once. His hobbit always seemed to _know_. Thorin sighed and resigned himself to waiting.

As soon as the updates regarding the kingdom – it hadn’t fallen down around their ears during his absence, huzzah and praise Mahal! – had run their lengthy course, Thorin stood, signaling an end to both the meeting and his patience. “Thank you all for your assistance,” he said. “Your dedication is admirable and greatly appreciated. I must crave your indulgence for now, however, and ask that you bring any matters that require my attention to me tomorrow after I have rested.”

With that, he held out his hand to Bilbo, and when Bilbo took it, he was struck, as he always was, by the way their fingers folded together so naturally. His hand engulfed Bilbo’s, but Bilbo squeezed his fingers with a strength that was surprising.

“ _Resting_ ,” Bilbo murmured when they stepped into the corridor. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” His eyes danced.

“It’s very relaxing,” Thorin replied, his mouth curling into a tiny grin.

Bilbo only hummed in response, but didn’t appear to be averse to… _resting_ , if the way he trotted beside Thorin was any indication.

Thorin had to remind himself that Bilbo would be much less amenable if he picked him up to better hurry to their chambers. He settled for a quick, steady walk, and ignored the way the guards at his chamber door winked at him as he and Bilbo passed through.

The moment the door closed behind them, Thorin pulled Bilbo against him to greet him in the way he hadn’t been able to in the courtyard with the whole kingdom watching. He buried his face in Bilbo’s hair, holding him as close as he could, then pulled back to pepper kisses all over his face

“I missed you, too, Thorin,” Bilbo said with a laugh. Then his grin faded slightly. “The days were very long without you, and the nights even longer.”

Thorin found it difficult to resist his hobbit at the best of times, and he would readily admit that three weeks unexpectedly without him did not constitute the best of times. He laid a hand on Bilbo’s cheek, tilted his head just so, then leaned in to kiss him with all the pent up fervor of those three weeks. Bilbo responded in kind, his hands first tangling in Thorin’s hair, then smoothing down his arms, his chest, everywhere he could reach.

He pulled back, panting, and tugged at Bilbo’s jacket, trying to remove it without tearing seams (again), but was thwarted by Bilbo himself working at his belt and the fastenings of his outer tunic. The belt thudded to the floor, his tunic gaped open, and Bilbo stepped back, struggling to get his jacket off, his face flushed, his hair mussed. It was Thorin’s second favorite look for his hobbit, and he indulged himself in it, even as Bilbo extricated himself from his jacket. It was half inside out when he finally won his way free, but he didn’t seem to care, and draped it over the nearest chair without straightening it out.

“You’re meant to take that off, Thorin,” Bilbo said, and toyed with the topmost button of his shirt without actually undoing it.

Thorin pulled off his outer tunic and under tunic as one, and let the tangle of cloth fall to the floor, uncaring of Bilbo’s huff. But he stepped back up to Thorin, reaching out to run his fingers through the dark hair covering Thorin’s chest even as Thorin’s hands settled on Bilbo’s shoulders. When those clever little digits tweaked his nipples, Thorin could not quite suppress a groan, and Bilbo licked his lips at the sound. Thorin combed a hand through Bilbo’s tousled curls and tilted his head back to better devour his mouth once more.

He was hardly aware of backing toward their bed until he barked his shins against the frame and sat down suddenly; his lips parted from Bilbo’s in surprise, but his arms tightened around his hobbit, keeping him close. Bilbo laughed softly at his expression and leaned in to press kisses to his brow, his nose, his cheeks, until he laughed as well.

Before he could swing his legs up onto the bed and drag his hobbit with him, Bilbo slipped from his grasp and knelt down. “Boots off,” he ordered shortly, and started working at the buckles, loosening them until he could work them off. When he stood once more, Thorin caught hold of his arm and tugged him close, until Bilbo knelt astride his lap, knees digging into the bed, their mouths fused together, tongues twining.

He ran his hands down Bilbo’s back, but paused at the feel of something unexpected beneath his shirt – something bulky that extended under the waistband of his trousers, and, as his fingers explored further – “Thorin!” Bilbo scolded, squirming and giggling – he discovered it was wrapped around his hobbit’s middle. “What’s this?” he asked, suddenly concerned. “A bandage? Are you injured?”

“Oh, no, not at all!” Bilbo said with a broad smile, his fingers playing with a strand of Thorin’s hair. “Well, perhaps a little at first, but it’s entirely healed now.”

Thorin frowned. “What happened?” A very unwelcome realization struck, and he took hold of Bilbo’s shoulders in a grip just shy of bruising. “Were you attacked?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bilbo admonished, but he was smiling so Thorin thought he couldn’t be _too_ put out. Indeed, he laid his hand lightly on Thorin’s cheek, and leaned forward to let their brows touch. “You always leap to the worst conclusions,” he said fondly. “No, this was entirely self-inflicted, if you want to look at it that way.”

“I don’t want to look at it that way,” Thorin muttered, his fingers moving to once more explore what was hidden under Bilbo’s shirt, then to his buttons. “What I _want_ is a straight answer as to why you are wearing a bandage!”

Bilbo heaved a put-upon sigh and batted his hands away from his shirt buttons. “I never planned to keep this from you,” he said more seriously. “But I do believe it will set you more at ease to show you. All right?”

Thorin nodded and reluctantly released him when Bilbo leaned back.

The hobbit slid from Thorin’s lap and shrugged his braces off his shoulders, then shimmied out of his trousers. He turned to drape them over another chair and Thorin noted that his shirt was long enough to cover the bandage, but not the fact that he wasn’t wearing smallclothes; he could see the pale, plump curve of Bilbo’s arse peeking out under the hem of his shirt, and it occurred to him that, if not for his worry over what that bandage might be hiding, this would be a very arousing display. As it was, he was not unaffected; watching Bilbo unbutton his shirt still made his sex grow interested. But he wanted to know why Bilbo was wearing the bandage more, and leaned forward as Bilbo removed his shirt.

Naked except for the bandage wound around his middle, Bilbo smiled at him, and privately, Thorin admitted that he didn’t seem injured or distressed in any way. His little show for Thorin had had the same effect on him, his member rising between his legs. He noticed Thorin noticing and his smile widened. Then he flipped back the bedclothes and crawled onto the bed next to Thorin. He lay on his front, wriggling a little into the mattress and letting out a little hum of pleasure at the contact before raising his eyebrows expectantly at Thorin. “Well?”

In between climbing onto the bed and settling in, Bilbo had undone the bandage that was wound around him, and the only thing on his back now was the thick pad of cloth that Thorin had felt beneath his shirt. There were no marks or bruises, nothing to show his hobbit had been injured, and tension bled out of his shoulders at the knowledge. Still, he ran his fingers lightly down Bilbo’s back, just to feel his soft skin, to watch him shiver.

With a touch as delicate as he could make it, Thorin pulled the cloth pad away from Bilbo’s back.

Then he just _stared_.

After a long moment, Bilbo glanced back over his shoulder; the movement made his back tense and twist, and without even thinking about it, Thorin put a hand between Bilbo’s shoulders to keep him from moving. Bilbo laughed, but did not try to move away as he sank down into the pillows again.

Thorin barely heard Bilbo’s laughter over the sudden roaring in his ears, and simply could not tear his eyes away from the small of Bilbo’s back.

Where Bilbo had gotten _inked_.

The ink was very dark against his pale skin, though the faintest tinge of red gave away that it was still healing. It nestled just above the swell of his arse, and its position alone would have been enough to guarantee that Thorin would want to kiss it, lick it, taste the ink on Bilbo’s flesh.

But Mahal’s mercy, he couldn’t even _think_ , because Bilbo’s ink spelled out Thorin’s own name.

The thick _angerthas_ runes of his name were as familiar to him as his own hand, and now they were sealed forever into Bilbo’s skin, in a place on his body that no one else would ever see. _Only me,_ he thought, distant and clouded with sudden arousal. _Only mine._

His pulse thundered through his body, his blood hot with desire. Fingers trembling, Thorin traced his name, and sucked in a breath as his sex throbbed in his trousers.

“Is it all right?”

Somehow, Thorin managed to understand Bilbo’s tone, even if the actual words of the question were lost on him. “What?” he asked, his voice low and raspy.

“Is it all right?” Bilbo asked again, craning his neck to look at Thorin over his shoulder. “I hoped you might like it.”

It was another long moment before he was able to pull himself together enough to form a coherent reply. “I believe,” he said, his hand still against Bilbo’s inking, his hobbit’s skin warm beneath his fingers, “that _like_ is not nearly strong enough a term.”

Bilbo laughed again. “Indeed?” he said teasingly. “I’m glad. I would _hate_ to think I’d gotten permanently marked in a way you just couldn’t stand.”

Thorin shifted around until he knelt over Bilbo’s legs, leaning forward to press his lips to Bilbo’s back, and Bilbo squeaked and twitched when he used his tongue to trace the runes. The ink was a faint foreign taste in his mouth, twined with Bilbo’s much beloved one, and the combination rushed straight to his sex. He growled against Bilbo’s flesh, fingers fumbling with the laces of his trousers.

“Oh!” Bilbo gasped. He trembled a little as Thorin laved attention on his inking, and arched his back, pressing his hips upward as if in invitation. “Thorin…”

Dimly, Thorin was aware of Bilbo’s movement, but only enough to shift with it; most of his mind was lost in a whirlpool of desire, and the little left over was completely focused on Bilbo’s new marking. He got his trousers open, and shoved them down to his thighs, his sex springing free. Then he straightened, his eyes locked once more on the runes of his name, and licked his lips.

Oh, what he wanted to do…

While he stared, Bilbo glanced back at him over his shoulder, then shuffled, trying to push up to his hands and knees, though that was difficult with Thorin still perched over his legs. “Thorin, how…”

_No,_ Thorin thought, _that’s not…_ “Don’t move,” he ordered, pressing Bilbo’s hips back to the bed. Bilbo sank down onto the mattress without resistance, but still looked at him over his shoulder, brow quirked as if he were confused.

Oh, it was selfish, but he simply couldn’t _think_ about that, not when the only things in his mind were Bilbo’s back and the runes of his name. The sight inflamed him.

He wrapped his hand around his member and couldn’t contain his gasp at the jolt of pleasure burning through him. The tip of his sex was already slick with pre-spending fluid, and he smoothed it down the shaft, shuddering at how _good_ his own touch felt. “Nnngh, Bilbo…”

“Thorin…” Bilbo wriggled beneath him.

“Oh, Mahal, I-I can’t… I need…” Thorin was hardly aware of the words falling from his mouth. He braced himself over Bilbo on one hand, while his other stroked his sex, rough and tight and quick. Bilbo twitched as Thorin’s long hair tickled his back, and Thorin clamped his legs tighter against Bilbo’s. “Please, beloved, just… let me…”

So aroused was he that it took shamefully few strokes before his climax rolled over him hard and fast. He groaned, shaking, as it took him, and even when he closed his eyes, the sight of Bilbo’s ink was burned into his eyelids. 

When it was over, he sagged forward, spent, leaning heavily onto his hand by Bilbo’s hip and panting. It was a long moment before Bilbo calling his name brought him back to himself. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was his seed covering Bilbo’s back and arse. He sat back, satisfaction filling him, and dragged a finger through his spending, smearing it further over the ink of his name.

Beneath him, Bilbo shuddered and moaned softly at his touch. “Thorin…” He started to move again, to get his hands and knees beneath himself.

“No, stay,” Thorin ordered, his hands pressing on Bilbo’s hips once more to keep him still. His eyes were still riveted to Bilbo’s back, and slowly, he leaned forward until his lips touched flesh and ink once more. His spending was growing cool and tacky over the ink, over Bilbo’s delectable arse.

Bilbo gasped at the swipe of Thorin’s tongue over his skin, his hips flexing as he rutted against the mattress. Thorin grinned into the small of his hobbit’s back, then licked him again. The taste of Bilbo, the faint tang of the ink, the musk of his own seed – it was altogether strangely compelling, and he continued to trace his name, his hands spread wide over Bilbo’s arsecheeks, fondling, nibbling, touching, until Bilbo moaned and writhed beneath him. “Thorin, _please_ ,” he begged, squirming under his hands. “Oh, please, I need…”

Kneeling up, Thorin tugged on Bilbo’s hips, and this time, Bilbo pushed himself up onto his hands and knees as quickly as he could. Thorin leaned over him, chest brushing his back, and wrapped one hand around Bilbo’s sex. Bilbo shuddered, whimpering softly at his touch. “Yes, more, please, Thorin…”

Thorin teased him, his grip light and loose and slow, and Bilbo bucked beneath him, demanding more. He kissed Bilbo’s neck, letting his beard scratch across Bilbo’s sensitive skin, then up the crest of one pointed ear, his tongue swirling delicately through the whorls and making Bilbo cry out softly, his sex leaping in Thorin’s hand.

“You wretched thing,” Bilbo gasped. He shifted beneath Thorin, and Thorin had no doubt he was trying to find some way to balance so he could move one hand from supporting himself and wrap it around his member instead. So he leaned more heavily onto Bilbo, and Bilbo whined at the sudden weight. “You’ve had your pleasure, now give me mine!”

“So demanding,” Thorin laughed softly against Bilbo’s ear, knowing what the husky sound would do to his hobbit. He wasn’t disappointed; Bilbo shivered beneath him, his eyes fluttering shut, all of his protests dissolving into a drawn out moan. “Be patient, beloved…” He firmed his grip around Bilbo’s sex, but the slide of his hand was too dry to bring any great pleasure, and this time when Bilbo whimpered, it was tinged with discomfort.

He leaned back, his weight on his own knees again, hands drifting to Bilbo’s hips, and immediately, Bilbo stretched out a hand toward the table by the bed, flailing helplessly when he couldn’t quite reach it. “Thorin,” he begged, “the oil, please…”

His hobbit was so lovely in his need, skin flushed with arousal, and Thorin gave a breathy moan as his own sex stirred and started to rise once more. Bilbo felt Thorin’s member growing hard against his arse, and rubbed against it, hissing, “Yes…”

Thorin leaned over, reaching out to grab the bottle of oil while still keeping one hand on Bilbo. It wasn’t easy trying to prise the cork out with one hand, much less with the distraction of Bilbo working his arse against him and mewling orders to _hurry up_. 

“You’re… making this… difficult,” Thorin griped, and released Bilbo to better brace the bottle.

“ _Hard_ , my dear,” Bilbo panted, with a little huffed laugh, and wriggled his arse for emphasis. “I’m making it _hard_.”

The cork finally worked free with a loud _pop_ – _“At last!”_ Bilbo groaned – and Thorin hurriedly coated his fingers in oil before setting the bottle back on the bedside table. Bilbo’s hips thrust in small, uncoordinated jerks, as if he couldn’t stop himself, and the sounds he made were edged with want. Every undulating movement made the runes of Thorin’s name across his back ripple into Thorin’s sight and out again, and every glimpse ratcheted his desire higher and higher.

He paused in the heat of his renewed arousal and tested the pucker of Bilbo’s arse with one finger, to determine how much opening Bilbo still required. _He wasn’t wearing his underthings,_ he recalled with some heat, and usually that meant… But his passage was dry and tight, though Bilbo still bucked up into his touch.

“I couldn’t…” Bilbo panted. “I wanted to… prepare… no time… Thorin!”

Feverishly, Thorin spread the oil over the inside of Bilbo’s thighs, Bilbo’s need riding him nearly as hard as his own. Without prompting, Bilbo pressed his legs together, offering Thorin a slick channel between them when he leaned forward to plant his elbows on the bed.

Thorin covered him, braced on one hand while the other guided his sex between Bilbo’s legs. He groaned as he slid home, the tip of his sex nudging Bilbo’s stones, and Bilbo shuddered beneath him. He drew a teasing path with his oil-coated hand, up over the crest of Bilbo’s hip and down again, trailing across his belly to his member. Bilbo whimpered at his touch, thrusting into his too-loose grip, unable to get any satisfaction.

He drew back, tightening his fingers around Bilbo’s sex, and pressed kisses to his narrow shoulder when he cried out. And then it was so easy to fall into a familiar rhythm, working his member between Bilbo’s thighs, pressed so sweetly around him. He leaned forward, his chest against Bilbo’s back, and nibbled at the pointed tip of one of Bilbo’s ears, just to hear him moan loud and wanton, to feel him push back hard against him. He dragged his callused fingers along Bilbo’s member, hard and hot in his grip, and Bilbo clamped his thighs even more tightly together in response, so that it was Thorin who gasped.

Bilbo gave a little breathless huff of laughter, wriggling his arse against Thorin’s groin, then groaned as Thorin sped up, the head of his sex bumping gently against Bilbo’s stones, his hand tight around Bilbo’s member. Bilbo matched him stroke for stroke, rocking back and forth, his panting of Thorin’s name reduced to a muffled keen as he dropped his head to his arms.

Thorin straightened slightly, just enough to enjoy the arch of Bilbo’s back sloping away beneath him, and caught sight of Bilbo’s ink once more. He growled – _mine, all mine!_ – and thrust harder, jerking a soft cry from Bilbo, tinged more with desperation than simple need.

Suddenly desirous of watching his hobbit in his pleasure, Thorin stroked up Bilbo’s sex, swirling his thumb over the belled head, and Bilbo trembled beneath him, whining wordlessly for more. Another firm stroke, another, and Thorin thrust up into that spot just behind Bilbo’s stones, holding it for a beat…

And Bilbo came undone, shaking with the force of his climax, his soft cry not quite stifled by his arms or the pillows. Thorin felt Bilbo’s member leap and throb as his hobbit spilled over his fingers, hot and sticky.

Bilbo’s thighs clenched around him, and even though he’d found his own release not long before, Thorin now discovered he was overwhelmed by the sight of Bilbo’s pleasure. He thrust shallowly, hampered by the tight press of Bilbo’s thighs, once, twice, and bliss rolled over him again, deep and powerful. He gasped and shuddered, spilling his seed until he felt wrung dry.

Slowly, he became aware that Bilbo had eased the pressure of his thighs around his sex, releasing him, and he drew back. Bilbo made a muffled sound into his pillow. Once free, Thorin toppled to the mattress, dragging Bilbo against his still heaving chest, and buried his face in Bilbo’s sweat-damp hair. For a long moment, they lay together, panting.

“You have made rather a mess of me,” Bilbo said breathlessly. He squirmed in Thorin’s embrace until, grumbling, Thorin loosened his arms just enough for Bilbo to wriggle around to face him, then tightened them again. “Are you going to clean me up again?”

Thorin groaned piteously. “I don’t have the strength to stand, beloved. Show some mercy?”

Bilbo snorted, but still pressed close, nuzzling Thorin’s neck gently. “I suppose I’m in for more itching and flaking, then. As if I haven’t had enough of that recently. That’s why I wore the bandage, you know.”

_Over his ink_ , Thorin thought, and with that thought, he was suddenly alert once more. He pressed a kiss to the crown of Bilbo’s head. “I fear I will find it more difficult than ever to keep my hands off you.” Even now, one of his hands had drifted down Bilbo’s back, where his fingers discovered the slightly puffy runes of his name and traced them over and over.

“Yes, well.” Bilbo grinned into his neck. “I am resigned to spending more time on my hands and knees, at least for the time being.” After a moment, he added, very softly, “I’m glad it pleases you.”

“Beloved,” Thorin whispered, and managed to pull Bilbo impossibly closer. “There is little you can do to displease me.” Then, when his hobbit pressed against him, he grinned against Bilbo’s hair and added, “Though the timing of your cold _does_ seem a little suspect.”

Bilbo stiffened, and Thorin imagined the reactions crossing his expressive features – shock, indignation, a single instant where he considered obfuscation or misdirection, and finally acceptance, signaled by a gusty sigh against Thorin’s collarbone. “Yes,” he muttered. “I am sorry about that, but Ori assured me it would need some time to heal, and if you were away…” He trailed off.

Thorin stroked his back. “I know.” And he did – it had taken some time for his own ink to heal. When he considered that, if he had been _here_ rather than in Dorwinion, he would have _known_ Bilbo had gotten inked, would have _insisted_ on helping care for it and therefore would have _known_ what it was… and then been _unable_ to do all the things he’d just done until it had healed… 

Yes, even though he hadn’t actually said the word, Bilbo had been right in thinking that it was easier that he hadn’t been here.

But now he was here, and Bilbo’s ink was healed, and he was not averse to anything Thorin had done…

His sex twitched hopefully at the notion.

Of course, plastered against him as he was, Bilbo felt it move against his thigh. “Really, Thorin?” He leaned back in the circle of Thorin’s arms to meet his eyes. “If you have strength enough for _that_ , you certainly have strength enough to clean me up.” Despite his stern words, his lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile.

“Oh, very well,” Thorin replied, his grumbling completely feigned. He rolled from the bed, dragged Bilbo after him, then slung him over his shoulder, ignoring his yelp of surprise. As he headed to the bathing chamber, he patted Bilbo’s arse, grinning and pretending not to hear his demands to _“Put me down this instant, Thorin, I am not a sack of potatoes!”_ But he wasn’t really trying to get away, his tugs at Thorin’s hair more to rouse Thorin’s interest than from anger.

In the bathing chamber, a bath was already prepared, steaming faintly. _A pleasant soak,_ he thought, stepping into the water, _while making sure my hobbit is clean and well-cherished… an excellent plan._ He set Bilbo on his feet and kissed him until his protests faded and he was clinging to Thorin’s shoulders.

And if part of his plan involved Bilbo squirming in his lap as they soaked… well, it _had_ been three weeks.

***  
January 12, 2020  
Revised February 9, 2020

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](https://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3651.html?thread=8228675#t8228675) on the Hobbit Kink Meme.


End file.
